


Sometimes, He Speaks to me

by Dream_Wreaver



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Also an added update, I felt it appropriate to bring this here, another year passing and it still hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:56:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/Dream_Wreaver
Summary: Cross posting from last year when certain news just kept me from doing anything productive for the fandom. Since we're nearing the end of the year again I thought it only appropriate





	1. Sometimes, He Speaks to Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this year writing wise has been a lot more productive than last year's. Anyone who knows me from FF knows that there are actually a ton more stories that are there, and a few that are only on here because I'm lazy and cross posting is a lot of work.
> 
> Anyways... I really can't begin to explain how much Labyrinth meant and continues to mean to me. A lot of people sort their favorite characters into Hogwarts houses, I picture how mine would survive a trip through the Labyrinth. It affected me so much because I was so young when I first saw it and yet it left an indelible impression on me. Don't get me wrong, I will still commentary and snark its ear off about plot holes and all that other Nostalgia Critic biz, my absolute adoration for the movie doesn't save it from criticism in the slightest. But, all the same... 2016 was a crappy year for me, 2017 was slightly less I guess? I miss this fandom, I miss it more than ever, and yet when I try to put my fingers to the keyboard and write for them I just get so... I can't even describe the feeling that comes over me. But I can let some former writings do the talking instead, so let's do that then

It’s quiet, it’s always quiet when it happens. Usually it’s late at night, when sleep is trying to crawl into the corners of her mind. She feels it, the prodding at the fringes of her mind, and no matter how many times she’s gone through this, knows it won’t end with her falling asleep anytime soon, knows that in all likelihood she’ll be staying up even after it’s over, mind racing and whirring and stressing, she –in her half-asleep daze- responds. Besides, she knows if she doesn’t respond, he’ll find some way to get to her. The state he always chooses to strike is one where she’s already in the throes of his domain. She’d rather he bother her while she’s already awake, because she values the sanctity of her dreams.

He appears to her, in her mind’s eye. Sometimes, he’s as real and solid as she’s always imagined him to be, other times he –much like her consciousness- is both there and not there. Semi opaque and semitransparent like she’s been led to believe spirits always are when viewed by humans. Sometimes, she can see him when he’s not there, when her eyes are open and staring into the darkness or when she’s blatantly staring into space: thoughts elsewhere. And yet other, other times all she has of him is his voice.

She can feel when he’s there, his presence brushes at the center of her imagination, her creativity, one of the cores of her very being. When no one is around to hear, she’ll speak aloud to him, but sometimes there are people there and so the conversation exists solely within her own mind.

He asks what she is doing, and she flippantly responds that she was either trying to go to bed, or talking with him. Sometimes, if she’s really aggravated, she’ll mutter obscenities under her breath at him. When that particular bout of pleasantries is over, then come the questions. Always the questions.

_“What do you dream of?”_

“Depends on the night. Sometimes, there’s a story, most of the time it’s straight up random weirdness. But I thought you would have known that already. Aren’t you supposed to be the Lord of Dreams?”

_“Very funny you impudent little mortal. I have no desire to enter your dreams.”_

“So why bother asking?”

_“Merely trying to make conversation, after all I **am** partially a construct of your own mind, influenced by the media I’m from.”_

“And yet you’re way more annoying than you should be for something like that,” she retorts.

There’s a beat of silence, and she’s waiting for what she knows is coming.

_“Any plans to write anytime soon?”_

“I’m working on it.”

_“You’ve been “working on it” for quite some time now. And ignoring other projects in the process.”_

The last comment is said quite pointedly, and she know what he means is that she’s been ignoring projects involving him and his ladylove: and as he’s once told her those unfinished projects leave him in a kind of subconscious limbo which itches and irritates him in ways he cannot begin to describe. She doesn’t respond.

_“Honestly, for someone who’s as obsessed with me as you are you don’t seem to be showing it much.”_

“I’m not obsessed,” she protests.

_“Right,”_ his tone is sarcastic, _“It must be some **other** girl with two copies of the DVD one of which she played nearly every week for an entire summer, a large online collection of related items, a worn t-shirt with my face on it, who collects owls, religiously follows fan-comics that feature me, and blows kisses to a miniature figurine she has of me while planning to acquire several others.”_

She’s pinking in both embarrassment and anger, “The definition of obsessed has been modified for girls like me. I’m not obsessed.”

_“You’re wearing an owl pendant. One of several you own.”_

“This was a gift,” she protests, turning on her side trying to get comfortable again.

Another beat of silence passes between the two. She is pointedly ignoring him after his previous argument of her description of “obsessed”.

_“Do you really think if you just lay there they’ll get done?”_ he asks her.

“Sometimes,” she answers honestly, “I have a bit of a heavy workload, in case you haven’t noticed.”

_“A workload you put on yourself when deciding what classes to take.”_ He reminds her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles.”

_“You haven’t written for quite some time,”_ he remarks, _“Lesser beings might think you’ve abandoned them.”_

“You know I haven’t,” she counters, “With everything that’s been going on, I just haven’t had the right motivation to write.”

_“I can empathize, somewhat, but I can’t say I understand.”_

Her chuckle is bitter, “You _are_ a Fae, aren’t you?”

_“Who’s to say?”_ is his reply, _“That’s the popular consensus at any rate.”_

“I know,” she tells him, “I always try to do you justice, don’t I? to give you your happy ending? Of course I would research you.”

_“Indeed you do,”_ there’s another pause and then he says, _“Now, would you care to tell me the **real** reason you haven’t been writing?”_

“I,” she fumbles, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She can feel his nonexistent gaze narrowing at her. He knows she’s lying, he’s just trying to find the cause of it. She can feel when he’s figured it out, but she hopes like an idiot he will just let the subject drop. Of course, he wouldn’t.

_“That?”_ he asks almost incredulously, as though it’s a surprise, _“It’s been nearly a year since it happened. Why are you still so worked up about it?”_

“Whether he knew it or not, he was my muse,” she explained, “Creating until his last breath, always something different, always something unique. So much like him. I, I loved him, as crazy as that may sound. I loved him as a fan, I loved him because of you. I loved him because even when he stopped, no one could forget him. And because of that, I sometimes think we forget just how fragile we humans are. That not even fame, protects us physically. The memories claim to always be there, but eventually they too fade, leaving nothing behind but dust.”

_“How maudlin,”_ he drawled, _“But you created right after you heard the news. You labored for nearly three months to bring something to express your love, your admiration-”_

“The pain was incredibly fresh then,” she explained, “And it wouldn’t have been right to mourn alone. But now,” she sighed, “All it brings up is a sense of hollow emptiness, and I lose my will to write.”

She feels eyes studying her.

_“Haven’t you accepted it by now?”_ he asks.

“If I had do you think you’d be here?” she quips.

_“Perhaps, but you just said this is the course that all humans take, why do you so willfully deny your reality?”_

“Because,” she hesitates, knowing the words might hit a nerve with him, “because… it’s just not fair!” she laments, “For the longest time, I had forgotten. I had forgotten, and when it came back it felt like a piece of me that had been missing, and yet still there, had finally come back. It feels like I’d only just gotten him back, gotten _you_ back and then… then that happens.”

There’s a huff of laughter he quickly stifles, but not in time to prevent her from hearing.

_“Mind if I ask what your basis for comparison is?”_

“You already know,” considering he is, in part at least, formed from her own mind, her memories –ones that are too difficult to put into words- are his to access.

He also knows that this, what they’re doing right now, is a coping mechanism for her. It always has been, ever since she was a little girl whose only friends where the ones only she could see. He knows of the hours she’s spent going on adventures without leaving her room, traversing the playground and having in-depth conversations about issues she’s seen them deal with. When she fears the outside world, she retreats into herself, and works out her problems by having friends who she knows can understand her completely and not judge her, as they are extensions of her own mind. He knows how hard she’s tried to find a real-world counterpart, and to a point: she’s succeeded. But old habits die hard.

He sighs then, _“How big a part of you am I?”_ he asks, genuinely wanting to know if she’ll put it into words.

“I have, fragmented memories of my younger years,” she tells him, “I think I must have been three or four. I was being babysat, and we were watching a movie, _your_ movie. We didn’t get too far before it was time to go home, but I remember the last thing I saw before I left was you: filling up the screen, filling up the room with your presence, your other-worldliness. I was entranced. But I never knew your name, so I couldn’t ask for you.

“And so the years went by. Over a decade after that night I was reading, and something someone had said struck me. I did a bit of digging and found you and from then on there was no turning back. It hasn’t been long since then, and I guess you never want to see your heroes die. So, I choose not to accept it.”

_“Instead you write your own version?”_

“Attempt to,” she corrects, “And it’s coming along. I’d love nothing more than to get published, but I write for me more than I write for anyone else.”

_“Flattering as that may be I’m not sure I appreciate being ignored for that.”_

“I may return, someday, when it hurts less…” she looks behind closed lids to where she imagines he would stand if she could see him, “Does the pain ever go away?”

_“It depends,”_ is his answer, _“Some mortals have a faster turnaround rate, you have a deep connection with what you’ve perceivably lost, and let’s face it: you’ve never handled death well anyways.”_

He has a point there. Death has plagued her life, hanging over her head since before her birth in one case. Most distant relatives of hers chose her younger childhood years to die. She did much traveling solely for the sake of funerals. Seeing the bodies never got any easier no matter who they belonged to. It’s even more painful when she has memories associated with them.

And yet, the macabre fascinates her as much as fantasy does. She has never seen the dark as evil like so many have. In fact, she finds comfort in it. But there’s a digression for another day.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she reminds him, “Are you even _qualified_ to answer?”

_“Fae die too, you know.”_ He informs her.

“Is it less difficult?” she asks, “I mean, you guys don’t die naturally right?”

_“Not in most cases,”_ he answers, _“Very rarely does any Fae live long enough to die of old age. More often we are cut down in battle, or sometimes, we feel we’ve lived long enough and **want** to move on. Eternity is a heavy burden, not for the weak-hearted. And some of us face the choice between either dying, or going completely insane.”_

“How come you haven’t?”

_“Who’s to say that I haven’t?”_ he asks in response.

“Point,” she allows, yawning and it echoes in her mind’s voice, “Maybe someday the pain dulls, but there’s always a scar to remind you of it.”

_“More than likely,”_ he affirms, _“Especially in your case.”_

She enjoys the almost companionable silence that falls between them. Idly, she registers the soft, even breathing of her roommate, she must have finally gone to bed.

_“Why do you so enjoy writing about me in the first place?”_ and she knows he’s not referring to all her published works, though by this point they far outnumber any other subject she’s written for.

She shrugs, though the motion is lost under the heap of blankets she’s buried herself under, “I wanted you to get your happy ending,” she says honestly, “I never thought you were evil, not in the sense I think of it anyways. You always seemed so heartbroken, every time. Tell me, when did you fall in love with her?”

_“I always watched her,”_ he begins, and she remembers how the girl ignored a barn owl in the park, during daylight hours and how odd that had been, _“I rule over a kingdom of inane idiots, some entertainment has to be found somewhere. I thought she was an interesting little mortal, but for the longest time that was it. I found it odd she would eschew the power that comes with age that so many of her peers sought, and choose the treasures of the past instead. It wasn’t until that fateful night, when I tried to use her dreams against her, and I found myself enchanted instead. I suppose that, just as I am part and product of your mind, I was something similar to her. I couldn’t beat her because the only way to do that was to offer her what she wanted, and like most young people, she didn’t **know** what she wanted. And so nothing worked. But the more time she spent, the less I wanted her to leave. I suppose it was over the course of those eleven hours that I fell in love. But why do you care?”_

“I enjoy romance?” she tries.

_“Mmhm…”_ he hums.

“They haven’t forgotten you know,” she tells him, “I doubt they ever will. Isn’t it funny? How certain things that are panned by critics always seem to be the things people enjoy most?”

_“You could say there’s a certain merit in all things. Even things that turn out bad, or become infamous. If nothing else, you learn to refine your palate and defend your opinions with facts.”_

“I suppose,” she muses, “Listen, I want you to know that the reason I’m writing that inspired piece is partly because I want to tell it, and give you the ending you deserve and have no one be able to refute it. I haven’t forgotten about you. And I will come back, eventually… For now though?” she shrugs again, “I just _can’t_.”

He wants to argue that she in fact _can_ and merely chooses not to. But he can also see how she tires, and knows that if he keeps this up her speech will begin to slur and her thoughts will become incoherent nonsense as she drifts into sleep. He decides that this is enough, for now anyways.

_“You’re tired,”_ he points out the obvious, _“Go to sleep. We’ll pick this up some other time.”_

“’Kay,” she mutters sleepily. She senses him ready to leave, or retire in some corner of her mind where he won’t be a bother. But before he can she reaches out one last time, “Jareth?” she calls.

He pauses, _“Yes?”_

“Thank you, for being there. For inspiring me, for helping shape who I am.”

_“Thank you,”_ he replies as he lets her fall, _“For keeping a villain in your heart.”_


	2. Sometimes, She Speaks to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone else takes their turn

While her visits, for lack of a better term, from a certain Fae King are not exactly commonplace, they aren’t rare either. What is rare are the visits she gets from _her_. She only has this power because sometimes the girl needs another girl to talk to. And who better than one she identifies with so much?

“What can I do for you?” she asks while lying in bed. Her other guest isn’t nearly as annoying as her counterpart when it comes to wanting to talk, and more often than not it’s the former who seeks the latter out.

_“I heard you’ve been having some trouble writing lately,”_ her voice always remains that of the teenage girl, no matter how old she must be by now, no matter how she’s been imagined to have aged she always remains that stubborn teenage girl who so many got to know, and watch grow, in the span of a single night.

“Gee, nothing stays secret for long, does it?” she asks sarcastically, “Did his royal glitterpants tell you that?”

There’s a chuckle at the insult, and while the girl knows the king will hear about it, she also knows that she’s somewhat constructed him to know she’s only playfully insulting him. Most of the time, anyways.

_“No,”_ she manages through her mirth.

“Then, praytell, how did you know?”

_“Well, this **is** your mind. Did you really expect us not to know? How could we help you if we didn’t?”_

She has a point there; the other girl concedes. The “we” in this case refers not just to the two of them, but every character she keeps in her gallery in case she ever has need of them.

She sighs, “It’s just been hard. I have plenty of ideas, more than enough. But writing is hard enough on its own. Add that to the year I’ve been having and… Not to mention, I’ve only had the strength to rewatch once or twice. The year before had me watching it at least once a week. Somehow, it just doesn’t feel the same anymore. I still adore it, I still adore you guys, but it almost feels like there’s something…”

_“Missing?”_ she supplies.

“Yeah,” the girl agrees, “But I thought you would be happy about my lack of progress. Minus the “unfinished story limbo” itch I’m not placing you into clichéd romance plots with his highness at the moment.”

_“I feel as though you’ve been a bit too influenced by that fancomic you’ve been reading,”_ she responds, _“While, yes, normally I would be in denial about feeling anything other than disdain for him: it’s been thirty years. And with nearly the entirety of the –what was the word you used? Fandom? Yes, the fandom, wanting me to become his queen you start to wonder if they don’t have a point.”_

“There are a few who would rather keep him for themselves,” she points out.

_“Ah yes, he’s told me,”_ one thing that she had often thought about when talking with them was that since they were a public product of sorts, if they were not connected to everything related to their movie. Somehow, that had turned into the answer yes. And they had both told her that every piece of fiction involving them, whether she had read them or not, they knew: because it became a part of them.

“Nothing like being shoved to the wayside for a self-insert character, right? Or, in some cases, your own brother,” she stuck her tongue out and shuddered at that. She wasn’t against two men in love, but there had to be a believable basis for such a thing, and baby-napping didn’t qualify with her.

The other female shared the sentiment. Some things were just too weird to even consider.

_“Just because you haven’t stopped writing doesn’t mean others have you know,”_ she pointed out.

“They’re welcome to it,” she countered, “I just can’t bring myself to do it. Every time I try I feel like the spark has been extinguished. Besides, what’s the point? Every good story has already been told.”

_“But not every story has been told the way **you** tell it.”_ She pointed out, _“You know, I always feel as though you portray me well. I never was the simpering, turn a complete one-eighty type anyways.”_

She rolls her eyes and laughs, “I’m sure, the only reason I relate so much to you is because we have so much in common.”

And it’s true, to some extent. Both of them loved reading and acting, both appeared to have trouble with friends, they had odd habits, and they each had a single sibling with a bit of a large age gap between them. Her parents hadn’t split, and were still married, but not everything was like it was in the movies.

She laughed, remembering something her parents had once told her, “Did you know I was even supposed to have your name?” she asked.

The other girl’s brows rose, _“Really?”_ she drawled, _“What happened?”_

“My parents,” she said as if that was explanation enough but continued anyways, “I have a lot of extended family because of my parents’ friends. Well, my mother and one of their friends were pregnant at the same time, and they shared the same first name. My parents’ friend had her baby first and named her… your name obviously; well, they already had the conundrum where the two mothers had the same first name, they weren’t about to put their daughters through the same thing. So, a new name had to be thought up and that’s partly how I got my name.”

_“You think I would have known that, considering I’m somewhat part of you.”_

“I don’t make it a point to always be thinking of stories surrounding my birth.”

There was a pause. And then the other girl said, _“Will you try to write again?”_

If there was one thing she hated, it was being nagged, “Telling me I should do something immediately makes me not want to do it.”

_“It’s been months,”_ she pointed out.

“I’m aware of the passage of time you know.”

_“You’ve come to terms with-”_

“No I haven’t!” she protested, putting her hands over her ears and shouting, “La-la-la I can’t hear you! It’s not true, that didn’t happen!”

_“Now who’s being childish?”_ she asked.

“I don’t care,” said the other petulantly.

_“You know how life is. One day you too will die, and then part of us will die with you.”_

“Gee, aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” she retorted, “And, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but the direction you’re taking this conversation in isn’t helping your cause.”

_“If this was how I was acting that night maybe I deserved all I got,_ ” she mused.

“I thank you for that lovely comparison.”

_“I was just thinking out loud,”_ she argued.

“Right…” she drawled.

_“We’re getting off track here,”_ she attempted to salvage the derailed conversation, _“Look, I know it’s hard, I know it’s even a little bit painful. But from pain comes one of two things: greatness, or more tragedy. Which one do you want to be?”_

She sniffed, “Greatness?” the way she phrased it like a question belied her uncertainty.

_“Then go out and create, share your feelings, share your magic. I can almost guarantee there are others out there who feel the same.”_

“You really think so?”

_“There’s only one way to find out. Go on,”_ she urged, _“Put your fingers to the keyboard. Let the words, let the emotions pour out of you. It doesn’t have to go anywhere; as long as **you** know you’ve done it then that’s all that matters. I’ve seen what you can do, and everyone has a little magic in them. For some it’s art, for others it’s music, sports, math, science, anything you could imagine. Your magic is writing, don’t keep it bottled up inside.”_

“Wow,” she remarked after the speech, “You really are a heroine character, aren’t you?”

There was a surge of movement and she could almost see the blush forming, _“You have a problem with that?”_

“No, no,” she quickly assured, “I just couldn’t help but notice it, especially after you go and do something like that.”

_“Remember, part of the way I am is due to your influence as well.”_ She reminded.

“Yeah, you know, I treat you guys so much like autonomous people that sometimes I forget.”

_“And that’s how you get caught talking to yourself.”_

“I have an excuse down pat for that by now. Whenever someone asks me if I was talking to myself I always say, “Yes, because I always have the most interesting conversations this way.” The looks I get are priceless!”

_“And yet I seem to recall you feeling like an outcast for the longest time for doing things like that.”_

“I found theatre, and I have a whole internet full of like-minded individuals to back me up. Hard to feel like an outcast when so many people can relate.”

_“I suppose,”_ she realized the conversation had derailed again, _“But really now, you should get to writing again.”_

“I will” she replied through a yawn, “But can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow? You kind of chose a poor time for a pep talk that yields results.”

She thought about that for a moment, and realized her companion was right. She could let it go for now. And if more pressing was needed later, that was fine too.

She laughed a little, _“Alright, I’ll let you get some sleep. So long as you keep your word and get to writing again soon.”_

“I know,” the yawns were coming more frequently now, to the point where her speech was getting mangled by them.

_“Goodnight then, I’ll see myself out. But remember: should you need us, for any reason at all…”_

“I’ll call,” she finished, “Goodnight Sarah,”

_“Goodnight,”_ and the presence vanished, leaving nothing more than a sleeping girl with a secretive smile on her face.


	3. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly a year, and yet not all things have changes

_ “Just how many times do you intend to change my name, and my story?” _

The question comes as new ideas spout forth like a never ending fountain of creativity. It happens to her far more often than she’d like. A single line of thought unravels into an entire universe to be explored. She likes depth and character for something so small as a short story. She likes characters, she likes to examine them, likes to explore them, likes to find out what makes them tick, makes them appeal to others. It’s a special skill of hers far above her other writing abilities. At least, that’s what the comments she receives when she consistently checks her inbox and account for say.

She likes the characters who are not so obvious. Black and white with shades of gray here and there. It’s a fascination that has captured her for over a decade and a half, when she first saw him that fateful night. A man callous and cruel and childish and vain and so many hated attributes. And yet, he could love. An emotion shared by so many creatures, and yet love is considered humanizing. It’s a paradox, she sometimes thinks, that love is what humanizes when it’s just as responsible for bringing out those unwanted and beastly urges. Animal nature is to love and be possessive of that love, like it is some sort of finite resource or precious item. To hoard it like a dragon and never let anyone close enough to take it from you.

But she’s digressing as she always does. It was him who inspired her adoration for the ones who can be redeemed through love. These men who are far from perfect, their flaws in an actual human being would cause others to say, “leave him and don’t look back” change is rarely so inspired in real humans as it is in fictional ones. But fiction has always represented a type of wishful thinking hasn’t it? A hope for a better tomorrow? A better humanity?

She has been writing her own story for over a year now. And every time she thinks she’s done it pulls her back. Something always needs to be changed. The deletion of a superfluous character, the adjustment of dialogue and plot to fit the changes, the addition of something that pushes her story out of the target range and yet renders it outside the next closest box. And sometimes she wonders why she bothers. There is nothing more she would love than to finish the story and share it with the world. But she worries, her material is directly inspired by him and his world, going so far as to utilize the same premise: a girl going through a maze. Her motivations have been altered, her character changed. But in the end is she not the same?

She fear she has been silent too long and decides he should have his answer, “Do you not like it?” she asks him, “I thought it would be nice, doesn’t pay adequate homage to you?”

The name -the newest in a long line of names she has made up for her version of him- was taken from a site used for character creation for roleplaying games. His counterpart’s has always stayed the same.

_ “I wouldn’t be certain of that, considering its source,” _ he replies,  _ “Nevertheless, why the change again?” _

“I thought of so many ways it could play out. In the very beginning she was forced into marrying him. And then he was her benefactor. And after that a malignant third party was preying upon her for their own purposes. They were both pawns in someone else’s game. Every time she was tricked. And the fourth time I wanted her to have a better relationship, to come to that world out of necessity instead of want. Yet now we seem to have come full circle again. Because once more she is already there, and once again she runs for her freedom, just how I originally envisioned her.”

_ “And my motifs?” _

“It is an original story, yet one that pays homage, don’t you think?” she asks him as she types away, “There are no original stories anymore. Not even yours was entirely. The motif of a maze as a symbol for change and growth existed long before three visionaries thought you up, before one man too incredible to be real brought you to life. What’s wrong with doing it my way?”

_ “Nothing, except that you continue to find fault and change it. Why is it you cannot be satisfied with what you have done?” _

She shrugs, “I don’t know. I wonder if it’s because there’s some part of me that feels as though finishing it for good and sending it off… It’ll be as though I’m washing my hands of you. As it is I haven’t had an idea for your world in months, putting all my energy into my original stories.”

_ “Not all your energy,” _ he points out.

“What do you want from me your majesty?” she asks him, “It still hurts, it hurts so much. And yet it feels like coming home, I can remember every word, every line, every inflection. I haven’t moved on, I keep coming back but it  _ hurts _ me. And sometimes I feel so alone because of it. I know there are people out there, people who have had similar experiences. But as of yet not to this, not to you. And I can confide in no one because I can tell they think it’s odd, perhaps even crazy to be so attached the way I am. To be hurting so bad that now almost a year later I cannot write for you again. So I pour my heart into my homage, my other fandoms, because it hurts less, it hurts less to see you in someone else. To write for them and give them their exploration, to give them a shot at happiness.”

_ “You took off your owl.” _ he remarks as though it’s worthy of notice. Though it’s true, the raptor pendant has been replaced with an encircled star made up of one continuous line weaving over and under itself.

“I-” she fingers the pentacle, neither a cheap nor expensive buy, “It began to tarnish, I thought it safer put away. And this, it’s supposed to help protect me.”

_ “And yet still you suffer,” _

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “It feels like a wound that will never close. It hasn’t scarred over yet, and I don’t have the strength to act as though it has. I haven’t stayed away because I have forgotten, forsaken or abandoned you. I haven’t moved on, which may be part of the problem if I’m being completely honest,” she bites her lip and then continues, “I don’t want to move on, I don’t feel I need to either. But I’m not strong enough to go back. Not yet,”

_ “And what if you run out of time before then, hm?” _

“What if I get hit by a car tomorrow? What if I suffocate in my sleep? What if I get on a plane and it crashes into the ocean?” she parries, “I just have to take it one day at a time. Can I ask that you’ll still be here, waiting for me when I come?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and though he is partially a construct of her own mind she worries that he might say no, just to be vindictive. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened to her.

_ “If that is your wish,” _

“More than anything,” she responds, “And… stay with me? Now, I don’t want you to go just yet.”

_ “So long as you remember me, I shall never leave you,” _ he promises.

His voice fades into the background, into the well of meandering and stressing and mindless thoughts that run rampant through her mind. But she feels better. For the first time in months, she can see the crumbling walls, and the sloping spires of a castle high on a hill, an enormous maze protecting it from harm. And the sight fills her with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally the end notes would be where I ask you to leave a comment or review telling me what you thought of this. Instead I just want to thank you for taking the time to read this. It's a bit personal, but I felt the need to share, and since I'm far more eloquent on paper (electronic or no) than in person this was the only way I could do it. Thank you again.


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